


In Which Sherlock Takes A Shower (Finally)

by slytherinquoll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, aspie!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinquoll/pseuds/slytherinquoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John forces Sherlock to take a shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Takes A Shower (Finally)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kind of sorry for this fic actually. It's un-betta'd, barely proofread, and I can't vouch for quality. Also Sherlock is basically me. As of 12/4/12 I've made a few adjustments to clarify/explain the reasoning behind certain inescapable feelings. This sort of highlights the needy, vulnerable side of Sherlock that I sometimes can so easily relate to.

            When John walked in he found Sherlock in much the same position he left him in that morning when he left for the clinic.

“Sherlock, your hair looks wet. What have you been doing?”

“Nothing.” Replied Sherlock, who was sprawled on the sofa, wearing a dressing gown and bits of semi-crumpled paper, and little else.

“Hang on, that is grease, isn’t it? When was the last time you had a shower?” The papers, John noticed with a hint of annoyance, were pages torn from several books.

“What day is it?”

“It’s Monday.”

“When did we finish the last case?”            

“I don’t know, Thursday? Friday? It was before the weekend. Hang on, you passed out as soon as we got back from the Yard. You mean you haven’t had a shower since before our last case?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Jesus, Sherlock. That was almost a week ago. You haven’t even left the flat since Friday, have you!”

“So?” Sherlock looked nonplussed, arms straining over his head to reach his violin.

“Right, that’s it. You. Shower.” John disappeared and Sherlock, who had finally reached his violin, laid it on his chest and began plucking the strings as he picked up a page and started to read about non-indiginous plant species that commonly thrive in Britain. He could hear John walking around in the flat. Becoming distracted by Sherlock’s lack of personal hygiene, he had forgotten to take off his shoes, only accentuating the sound. The pipes twanged on, and soon he could hear the bath water rushing out, then pounding of the shower water against the ceramic bath. Footsteps, and seconds later John appeared.

            Sherlock thought of resisting. He was aware it was childish, but he did not like to do anything on anyone else’s time even if he knew it was what he should do. He also knew that John knew this and would not back down.

“You are going to take a shower and then we are going to get something to eat.” It was an order. Sure enough there was the tiny, inevitable, resistance. An instinct Sherlock could not stop despite the conscious part of his brain telling him to.

            Sherlock rose, papers fluttering to the floor, placed the violin and book page down on the sofa together, and started to walk down the hall. He felt hesitation a few steps from the door, most likely due to the presence of his flatmate behind him, following no doubt to make sure Sherlock actually made it into the bathroom. Stumbling a bit, John pushed him along.

             Just as Sherlock started to cross the threshold, John ripped off his dressing down, gave him a push through the doorway, and shut the door. Sherlock stood back to the door and yelled, “John you know bathrooms lock from the inside.”

Rolling his eyes, John replied, “I am trying to make a point. Just take a shower, please Sherlock.”

             Inside the bathroom Sherlock could feel the humidity rising as the mirror started to fog over on the edges. He looked around. There was a fresh towel hanging on the hook near the door. Trying not to think about the feeling of wet terrycloth against his nails, he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub, hot water instantly engulfing him and brain going delightfully numb. He reached for the shampoo bottle and, standing upright again, noticed he was rocking back and forth. He tried to stop himself. Sherlock Holmes did a pretty good job of staying still in public, containing it in a single rotation of the wrist, or a single twirl.

         While rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was rotating rhythmically from left to right. Damn.  But alone in this contained environment he decided a certain amount of movement was ok. Beneficial, even.

         Enjoying this distraction to life and his constantly overdriven brain, he cupped his hands and watched the water splash and then overflow the surface of the little pond he had gathered. When he heard banging on the door, he decided it was finally time to leave the protection and comfort of the warm water and get on with it. Stepping wholly under the stream one last time, he reached for the lever and turned off the shower. Shaking his head, he reached over for the largest towel and wrapped it tight around his body. He realized he did not have any clothes in the bathroom, so he crossed the hall to his room and shut himself inside. It was chilly and dark. Clutching the towel with one hand, trying not to touch the wet parts of it, he rummaged around in his drawers for clean clothes suitable for going outside of the flat in. He didn’t really want to put on real clothes, eyeing the duvet he'd much prefer to wrap himself in, but he had acted childish enough tonight and did not desire angering John further, who he knew had his best interests in mind.

            As he dressed he could hear the tv, it was a news show talk show, must be just past seven o'clock. Toweling off his hair once more before tossing it over the bed post while pushing back the thought of the wet towel on a wet bedpost he knew would be there when he returned, he walked out into the sitting room and picked up his shoes, glancing at John's which were still on his feet and on the coffee table atop each other, legs crossed.

“So, where are we going?”


End file.
